


Under My Umbrella

by prettybirdy979



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 06:36:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1848070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybirdy979/pseuds/prettybirdy979
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's being sewed up, Sherlock's making a scene and it's pouring rain.</p><p>So basically your average day for Sherlock and John until it isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under My Umbrella

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PipMer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/gifts).



> For PipMer and her prompt... I swear I got to it eventually!
> 
> This fic is unbetaed.

‘Where is he?’

John doesn’t flinch as the sound of Sherlock’s raised voice reaches him. Which is good as another doctor currently has a needle in his thigh, stitching up his recent gunshot wound.

‘What on Earth?’ Doctor Smith pauses to listen to the raised voices that are getting ever closer.

‘My friend.’ John says with a sigh. ‘I think he just noticed I’m not where he left me.’

‘At home?’

‘Crime scene.’ John rolls his eyes at Doctor Smith as the man stiffens. ‘We were assisting the police in detaining an American fugitive. My flatmate probably got caught up in telling the police how clever he was and didn’t notice when the ambulance Lestrade called brought me here.’

‘I don’t _care_ about your procedures! I know he’s on this floor, now let me through.’ Sherlock sounds angrier than John’s ever heard him sound, though the nurse matching each of his yells sounds just as mad.

‘You don’t sound pleased about being here.’ Smith seems to have decided to ignore the growing conflict outside.

John follows his lead with a smile. ‘Inspector Lestrade overreacted. I could have done this at home. There was really no need for me to come in.’ Sherlock’s shouts are getting close to roars of pure anger, with words hard to distinguish. ‘Would have saved you guys the scene at least.’

Smith smiles. ‘Oh I don’t mind. I think the nurses might have a word or two to say later though.’ He neatly ties off the last stitch. ‘There you go. Now, normally I would have you wait here a little while, just to be safe but-’ He gestures at the door, ‘-I think you might be needed elsewhere. Can you apply a bandage yourself or-’

‘No no. I’m good.’ John grabs a roll from the nearly table and quickly wraps it around his thigh. With a smile, Smith sticks it down and helps John to his feet.

At that moment the door to the room bursts open, revealing a clearly distraught Sherlock followed by three nurses. ‘John!’

'Only three nurses?’ John shakes his head as Sherlock strides across the room to push Smith aside and take his place in helping John up. ‘You’re losing your touch. I would have thought you would have pissed off a dozen of them.’

‘Oh he did.’ One woman says, eyeing them both. ‘We’re the only ones who were free to follow him.’

‘Oh of course. Well, thank you for your trouble but this belongs to me. I’ll take him off your hands now.’ John takes two steps forward, wincing every time his steps pull slightly at his stitches.

‘I don’t belong to you.’ Sherlock mumbles, this fierce tone undermined by the care in his movements as he supports John.

‘Course you don’t.’

********

John dozes on the cab ride home, drifting off in between bursts of pouring rain and Sherlock rattling off deductions about their cabbie. It takes Sherlock two shakes of his shoulder for John to realise they’ve arrived at Baker Street.

Yawning, John stumbles out of the cab. He moves as fast as he can to the front step but one pat down of his jacket and he can suddenly recall the keys he left sitting on the table in the earlier mad dash out the door.

‘Sherlock, please tell me you have your keys.’

‘I don’t belong to you.’

John blinks in confusion as he turns to look at his friend, still standing on the curb. ‘What?’

‘I don’t belong to you.’ Sherlock repeats. It takes John a moment to recall the moment at the hospital.

‘Of course you don’t.’ He repeats too. ‘Now, your keys?’

But Sherlock isn’t willing to drop whatever this subject is. He takes five long and fast steps so as to now loom over John. ‘I do not belong to you.’

John groans in frustration as some rain manages to get under his collar and run down his back. ‘I know you don’t! If anything I belong to you, you possessive git. Now, do you have your keys?’

‘You don’t belong to me.’ Sherlock sounds like someone has slapped him and John sighs, internally resolving himself to finishing whatever the hell this conversation is in the pouring rain.

‘But I do really. You take up most of my time, I follow you everywhere, I can’t manage a longterm relationship with anyone who isn’t you and I’m the one who gets hurt because of it. I don’t mind but yeah, the argument could be made I belong to you.’

Sherlock places a hand on John’s left thigh, right over his recent gunshot wound. He’s a step below John, so they’re nearly at an equal height. It feels odd. ‘I don’t like you being hurt.’

John slightly leans into the touch. ‘I don’t like being hurt either.’

‘I would have killed him for it.’ Sherlock whispers. ‘Both for nearly killing you and for implying you deserved it for following your master.’

‘I don’t remember that.’ John whispers too. Somehow this feels like a moment that a raised voice will break, destroying any chance of whatever is to come ever happening.

‘You weren’t there.’ There is a note of accusation in Sherlock’s voice. ‘He _dared_ to threaten you again and when I looked up, you weren’t there.’

‘Not my fault. Lestrade-’

‘I know.’ But there is still a note of fear undercutting his voice.

John suddenly realises how close they are. Sherlock has leaned in during the conversation and his face is just centimetres from John’s. So close really, that John would barely need to move to kiss him…

Sherlock smirks. ‘I knew it.’ He whispers and closes the gap.

For a moment John is too stunned to react. But then he is pushing back, returning each of Sherlock’s lips’ soft touches with matching touches of his own. His hand moves up to grab at the back of Sherlock’s neck while he buries the other in Sherlock’s coat and uses that grip to pull him even closer. Sherlock comes willingly, keeping one hand on John’s thigh but moving the other mirror John’s hand on his neck.

Someone opens their mouth. John isn’t sure who but there is a tongue in his mouth exploring every inch of it, then retreating to allow him the same favour.

It’s then John notes he’s not getting wet. He blinks in confusion as he can still hear rain and something must also register with Sherlock. He pulls back and together they look up.

There’s a black umbrella above them. Sherlock stiffens in John’s arms as John looks to his left, to see who is holding it up.

He stiffens too when he sees Mycroft casually standing beside him, face politely turned away. He’s fidgeting slightly, as if he’s impatiently waiting for his brother and John to finish something silly and then pay attention to him.

‘Mycroft.’ Sherlock makes his brother’s name sound like the worst of swear words. ‘What _are_ you doing?’

Mycroft turns to face them. ‘Well, while I am quite out of the rain right here but I noticed that your position did not offer you the same opportunity.’ He looks at Sherlock affronted. ‘I assumed you would not mind my offering a small service to keep you and your doctor dry while you… figured yourselves out.’

‘Piss _off_ Mycroft.’ Sherlock releases John to fish in his jacket for his keys, pushing past him to unlock the door. ‘You’re not coming in!’

‘I did have to see you for a short moment over a small matter.’ Mycroft tries to follow Sherlock in but John sidesteps so he blocks Mycroft’s path.

‘Then if it’s such a small matter, it can wait until morning.’ He says cheerfully. ‘Your brother and I were in the middle of something and I personally would like to finish it.’ He nods at Mycroft. ‘Goodnight.’

Then John turns and enters his home, slamming the door in Mycroft’s face. Sherlock is standing by the stairs, a look of delight on his face.

‘Now,’ says John, moving forward, ‘where were we?’

Sherlock pushes him up against the hallway wall. ‘Here I think.’ He says as he kisses John once again.


End file.
